


A Needed Conversation

by sunriseshades



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Hermione Granger, BAMF minerva mconagall, Female Friendships, Gen, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Memory Loss, Mentor Minerva McGonagall, Mentor/Protégé, Protective Minerva McGonagall, hermione needs a huge, memory spell, mommy issues lol, obliviate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27109885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunriseshades/pseuds/sunriseshades
Summary: After Hermione erases her parents’ memories, she goes to London to heal her wounds before returning to the chaos of The Burrow. However when McGonagall finds out what she’s done, she finds Hermione and the pair have a much needed conversation.In other words; Hermione needs a hug.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 62





	A Needed Conversation

The whole process was far less ceremonial than what Hermione had anticipated. 

While logically she had known that the magic that she used to alter her parent’s memories was a clean cut and transactional spell, perhaps part of her subconscious had envisioned that there would be some residual emotion left; fragments of her existence that would cling to the thick summer air around her home, but magic isn’t that sentimental. 

Instead she watched as her image faded from decade old family photographs, leaving an immaculate untouched space where she had once been; the ink on her birth certificate was erased as easily as dust is blown off by breath, every birthday and christmas card, primary school certificate or treasured plane ticket evaporated in seconds. There was no fire or flames to bleed destruction over her life; only an emptiness that swallowed her whole. 

She shut the front door with a resounding thud, and even the very house in which she had taken her first steps seemed to look at her with a cold indifference. 

She could not cry here, as much as the lump in her throat bobbled up and down and her eyes stung with tears; Hermione forced herself to turn on her heel and stride purposefully through and out of her neighbourhood. 

Strictly speaking, the spell cast on her parents did more than alter their memories, but the fabric of reality itself. It had taken almost a full year of studying in order to prepare, including finding access to books that had been prohibited to public access for centuries, she’d spent months pacing - turning the idea around in her mind until it felt right. However she had come to learn that producing a spell that would erase one’s existence would never sit right with the ago, but it was necessary. This meant that no living muggle would have any recollection of her existence; not her childhood friends, old and beloved teachers, elderly neighbours who had watched her parents bring her home from hospital nearly twenty years ago, or the waitress at the coffee shop who put extra marshmallows on her hot chocolates. 

She boarded a train that travelled away from the suburbs and into the city, and felt much like a ghost among the living; the knowledge that her face had never been observed by a living soul in her world. 

Still, Hermione had taken further precautions in case there were Death Eaters preying on her (which there inevitably would be). Instinctively her fingers brushed at the burgundy passport in the deep pockets of her trousers which bore the name “Juliet Rosenberg” which couldn’t be traced back to her on paper. Along with a few standard concealment charms, she had strayed away from her usual clothing style and was dressed in a pair of high rise cargo trousers and a long sleeved black t-shirt. She’d also gone to the effort of straightening her hair- knowing it was her most defining feature, and framed her head with an old fashioned bandana that had sunflowers patterned onto the fabric. When she had looked in the mirror, a strange nausea had overtaken her- as though she had misjudged the last step on a staircase. The entity looking back at her had been a straight faced young woman, rather than the terrified bright eyed girl she felt like. 

After twenty minutes, she got off the train at London Bridge station and breathed in the hum of activity that buzzed in the evening air. All the bars and restaurants were brimming with a tired happiness of overworked office workers, who had loosened their ties or slipped off the high heels and were reclined in their seats, gripping the drink in their hand like a lifeline. She caught pieces of their conversations, complaints about unnecessary meetings, trivial “who was fucking who” scandals, a drunken insistence on a pay rise. 

In another life, this would have been her world- or close enough. She would have her eyes set on a top university, and spend her summer at a work experience. Her mind would be filled with worries about university applications and essays and salaries and career plans. She would never have been called a mud blood, wouldn’t have nearly died every single year of her high school career, wouldn’t have watched Sirius and Dumbledore die. 

Not for the first time, Hermione wondered how much longer she would be able to protect Harry from a painful death without succumbing to one herself. 

Her low mood dragged her subconsciously to sit at a bench that overlooked the Thames; lights from the sky scrapers on either side flitted over the greenish waves in an endless dance. While the voice of reason chattered tirelessly at the back of her mind, reminding her that this was all necessary, that if she had the choice to go back she would always choose to be part of the wizarding world, still she could not look away from the mental image of her parents blank faces as they had watched her leave the house, and buried her face in her hands to try before she lost composure completely. 

“My, you’re a sight for sore eyes Hermione” 

In an instant she leapt from her position on the bench, hand edging out the wand that was hidden in her sleeve, and tried to stabilise her heart- which thrummed furiously in her chest. 

It only took one word for Hermione to place the voice of her head of house, a woman she had dutifully admired from the moment she’d met her as an eleven year old girl. Still, it was a disturbing sight to see the familiar figure of Minerva McGonagall - who was donned in her signature regal green robes - in the bustling inner city of London. She was so achingly familiar in a world that Hermione felt that no longer recognised or belonged to, that she felt her heart expand painfully in her chest. Not before, however, the echoes of Mad-Eye’s hour long lectures bounced in her mind. “Constant vigilance! Constant vigilance or you’ll be dead as dogs before long”. 

“Prove to me it’s you” Hermione demanded, her voice breaking at the feigned bravado. While the area was busy enough, that had never stopped Death Eaters in the past from making a spectacle. “Tell me something that only you would know” she added, her eyes flitting to the unsuspecting muggles around them and trying to calculate her next move if this situation got ugly. 

McGonagall masked her momentary surprise, and a relieved smile spread across her lined face. 

“I’m glad Moody has taught you thoroughly” she said primly, before meeting Hermione’s eyes with her own wise blue ones. “I know that when you were a little girl your favourite book was Matilda, and that you used to make objects float around you just like she did. I remember because the day I gave you your letter you insisted on showing me, and I had to give your father a calming draught afterwards”. 

Relief flooded through Hermione’s body, and she felt her shoulders drop. Now she could fully appreciate the comforting obscurity of McGonagall’s presence, yet before she could voice any of the hundred questions that were flooding through her mind, the older witch closed the space between them and brought her in a tight embrace. 

It wasn’t the first time that McGonagall had hugged her; it was a well kept secret among Gryffindors and muggleborns alike that the witch had an affinity for knowing who was homesick, or was having trouble sleeping, and subsequently needed a kind word and warm embrace, and it would never be spoken of again. Hermione had found herself overwhelmed within the first few months of starting Hogwarts, with too many nights spent reading endless books under the covers, until McGonagall confiscated them and insisted that she go to bed at a decent hour, and that just because her parents were unaware of her activities while at school, that did not grant her the freedom to flout the rules. Then in second year after she had awoken from being petrified for months, McGonagall had hugged her fiercely before giving her grief over the worry that she had caused. It wasn’t until she was older that Hermione - like many students - realised that the underpinning motivation for every one of McGonagall’s chastisements, lectures and punishments, was love. 

Hermione closed her eyes and breathed in the light scent of chamomile tea and woodsmoke, and for a moment convinced herself that everything would be okay - because McGonagall was here no true harm could be done to her or those she loved. Then Mcgonagall pushed her away slightly to look her up and down with a sceptical glance- hands still gripped on Hermione’s upper arms. 

“How did you find me?” she asked tentatively, worried about any loose ends that would leave her parents in danger of discovery. 

“Kingsley told me about your plan” was all the Professor said, her tone clipped and disapproving, “but he waited until it was too late, because if I’d had any idea what you were planning on I would have been at the door to shake some sense into you”. 

Feeling suddenly exhausted, Hermione sat back down on the bench and overlooked the Thames once more, watching as the summer sky slowly darkened. McGonagall was still looking at her when she spoke again. 

“And frankly I’m furious” 

Hermione swallowed hard at the sting of the words, but couldn’t help glancing down at her hands, which were rigid in her lap. 

“It’s the most effective way to keep them safe. There aren’t enough people in The Order to protect them, and I wouldn’t trust anyone else with their lives” she said softly, she felt firm in her belief that she had done the right thing, even if her Professor’s opinion mattered more to her than she cared to admit. 

“Merlin I’m not angry at you Hermione! I’m angry at myself, at the whole situation!” McGonagall said shrilly, causing Hermione to look upwards in surprise. The older witch softened slightly and sighed, and for a moment she appeared to be hundreds of years old; the lines of worry that framed her oval face were like cuts, with tendrils of her fine grey hair billowing in the wind, and mostly how her light sapphire eyes seemed stricken with grief. 

“All muggleborns make a great sacrifice by honouring their magical abilities; as mere children we take you away from everything you’ve ever known and bind you to secrecy that will forever prevent you from growing close to your family or friends. Instead you’re under my care, it’s my job to introduce you to our world and hope it doesn’t swallow you whole, to protect you, but” McGonagall paused for a moment before resolving herself, “I fear I have failed to do that on too many occasions, and I will forever live with the regret of having allowed you to sacrifice too much, Hermione, for the sake of protecting Harry and being part of a war that you had no choice to be in”. 

For once, Hermione did not know what to say. She was paralysed by the weight of McGonagall’s own vulnerability, her fears and regrets. Having spent so many years idolising her as an unbreakable entity and limitless source of eternal wisdom, it struck her that this vulnerability didn’t threaten the adoration she had for her professor, but enhanced it. 

Hermione reached out and took McGonagall’s hand in her own and squeezed it gently, hoping that any words that she couldn’t verbalise would be translated intuitively. 

“I think I decided a long time ago, Professor, that a life not worth sacrificing for was not a life worth living. In any case, I’ll always know you as the woman who taught me that it was good to be different, that it’s brave to care, but caring doesn’t come without its heartbreaks” she said softly, her lower lip trembling slightly as she thought of her parents. 

McGonagall said nothing for a few moments, instead her eyes glazed over slightly as she looked at Hermione, the ghost of a smile pulling at her lips. 

“Sometimes I want to ask myself when you became so wise? What happened to that eleven year old girl I took to Gringotts and tried to make friends with the goblins?” the Professor asked indulgently, and Hermione laughed slightly despite her embarrassment. Still she continued, “and now you’ve transformed before my very eyes, and I know that if your mother and father could understand a fraction of the brilliant young woman you’ve become, well, I imagine their pride would be stronger than any magic” 

That was the final straw; the tears that had been threatening to fall for weeks finally cascaded down Hermione’s face in an endless stream of grief, worry and exhaustion. She cried for her parents, for the future of her existence in The Order, and for Harry’s safety. She found herself in McGonagall’s arms once more, with the older witch bringing her hand along the length of Hermione’s long hair in long repetitive motions until the world around them seemed to melt into a memory. She couldn’t decipher how much time had passed, only that a weight in her chest had lifted and her eyes burned from the tears. Yet when she finally was able to sit up, she found herself not on a bench by the Thames, but in an unfamiliar living room with a burning hearth and the faint smell of vanilla. 

“Wait, how did you do that?” she asked incredulously, and Professor McGonagall laughed, 

“There’s got to be a few spells you don’t know about until you’re older- sometimes all the fun is in the not knowing” she answered, with a slight smugness in knowing how that sentiment went against everything Hermione stood for. For once, she was too tired to argue. 

“Is this your house?” She asked, pushing back the childhood thoughts that even teachers at Hogwarts would just reside in the castle all throughout the year. The space was cosy but well organised, with oak furnishings and a well used red rug on the floor. For a moment Hermione felt like an intruder in this home that was so clearly catered to just McGonagall. “I was planning on-“ 

“Staying at a hostel for a few days before going to The Burrow, I’m aware. Honestly Hermione, how do you expect me to sleep knowing you’re in the middle of London by yourself with a Death Eaters on the lookout for you? I’ll do you the favour of not telling Molly, but you’ll stay here if you know what’s good for you”

McGonagall gave an expression that clearly read, “you won’t win this argument”, and Hermione leant back into the sofa, the weight of the day creeping up on her body like an invisible cloud. The ghosts of worries and anxieties crept around her mind, yet as the fire cackled steadily in the background and McGonagall began pottering about the room, something in her body told Hermione that it was safe to rest. 

So she did.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! 
> 
> Let me know what you think about this and other stuff that you would be interested in reading!


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